


Goodbye

by koalawhisperer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:06:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalawhisperer/pseuds/koalawhisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes to say a final goodbye to Jim after the events on top of St. Barts and deals with some very unexpected feelings towards the man. </p>
<p>Part of Tumblr's Sheriarty Week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye

Dead.

Bullet right through the brain.

Blood staining the top of St Bart’s, leaving a permanent mark and record of the events that had happened there.

Jim Moriarty, the closest thing Sherlock had ever come to someone who’d ever understood him, was dead. That couldn’t be. The man was larger than life, larger than death, larger than anything that any ordinary person dealt with. He couldn’t be, Sherlock thought as he slowly trudged down the alleyway, his heart feeling as heavy as his feet. Why was he reacting this way? Caring was not an advantage, and why was he caring about Jim, especially after what he’d done to John and everyone else? He thought back to the rooftop, about what they’d said to each other. How they’d realized just how similar to one another they were.

Could it be?

Had Sherlock secretly been harbouring sentiment for the man people had always presumed was his enemy? Then again, were they really enemies? Yes, they were on opposing sides of the law, Jim working in crime while Sherlock solved them, but enemies hated each other. Then again, there was a fine line between love and hate, as cliché as it was. Sherlock passed the lab and glanced inside. That lab where he’d first met Jim, at that time in his Jim from IT disguise. Maybe he should have called the man. It was clear that Jim had admired him for a long time, and what had he done? Mocked him, insulted him, and thrown the number away without a second thought. If he’d called Jim, would any of this have gone the way he had? Would Jim be dead, a cold corpse on a slab or in a body bag in a cold locker, or would he still be alive? Would there be something going on between Sherlock and Jim? Not that either of them did conventional relationships.

He sighed heavily as he found himself in front of the morgue. The morgue where Molly currently held Jim’s body in some locker or covered on some table for a post-mortem. Some average, ordinary locker, so much less than he deserved. Jim was Sherlock’s best distraction, the man who’d gotten him started as a consulting detective. He didn’t deserve some cold, grey locker. He deserved a _throne._

Sherlock stared at the door and peered through the thin piece of glass that constituted as a window. Where was Jim? Was he in a locker already, or was his body on one of the tables? Sherlock crept silently into the morgue – alright, so he didn’t have permission, but it was after-hours, and no-one was around – and went over to the lockers. He scanned each and every name, looking for something that could clue him in to Moriarty’s whereabouts as he tried to figure out why the hell he was reacting so strongly. He had always respected the man, but surely he wouldn’t care _this_ much for someone he just respected. Maybe there had been a touch of love there, not that he’d ever say it aloud. Or maybe it had been the love of their game, not love for Jim as a person. He didn’t _love_ people. Love was weakness. Right? He shook his head to clear his mind of such troubling thoughts as his search for Jim’s name – or an alias – proved fruitless. Maybe his body was on the table, waiting for examination.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned behind him to look at the lone body on the table, covered with a nondescript white cloth. About the same height, same thin frame. Same pale skin on the foot that stuck out. Was this Jim? He looked so small in death, so unlike the grandiose man Sherlock had known. How could this be? Just as both of them had gotten confirmation that they were truly made for each other, Jim had pulled a gun out of his coat (Sherlock still loathed himself for missing something like that), stuck it into his mouth, and without warning, pulled the trigger. How could he have missed something like that? Sherlock could tell when smaller things were concealed. How had he missed a gun? If he’d known, would he have tried to stop Jim? Perhaps he would have. Because without Jim, Sherlock was alone. Yes, he had John, but John… well, John didn’t understand him as Jim had. And while John thought Sherlock was dead, he was bound to move on.

Sherlock went over to the end of the board, standing silently beside the corpse’s foot. There was, as always, a tag on the big toe. Sherlock carefully lifted it and read the name. _Moriarty, James_. Oh, god. His heart stopped in his chest, and he dropped the tag as though it had electrocuted him. This made it real, not some sort of dream. Sherlock eyed the sheet that covered Jim’s head. Did he do it? Did he lift the sheet and get one last glance at the man who’d given him so much over the years? He scolded himself for being so sentimental, going to the other end of the sheet and lifting it. There he was. Jim. Eyes and mouth closed, the perfect picture of death. Molly or someone else must have done that. His hair was mussed, some near the back matted with blood. And he was ghostly white, even paler than he’d been in life yet still with some colour in his cheeks. The blood hadn’t drained yet. If he’d been in his right mind, Sherlock would’ve found that odd, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was dazed, looking at Jim as though in a trance.

Sherlock sniffled a bit and grit his teeth. No. He was not bloody crying over Moriarty. He wasn’t going to let himself go that far. He had to get out of here and fast. But something, something he would later admit was sentiment, caused him to brush Jim’s hair back and smile down at the man. A watery smile, a pained one, but still a smile. He deserved someone to say goodbye. Sherlock took a shaky breath as he leaned down and kissed Jim’s forehead, lingering slightly before pulling away and pulling the sheet back over the former consulting criminal’s head. There would be no funeral, no public memorial, not for a criminal, but this was good enough for Sherlock, and he had a feeling that Jim would have wanted it this way. Just the two of them, just as it had been in the end.

“Farewell,” Sherlock whispered as he turned and left the morgue. After this, he would leave London and go into exile, eventually to return. Someday.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and headed out, out to resolve himself of whatever he was feeling at the moment. He didn’t have time for grief, angst, or longing. Not when he had a plan to carry out.

As soon as Sherlock was out of the morgue, the sheet moved ever-so-slightly up and then down, as though the body beneath it had taken in a tiny, miniscule sip of air.


End file.
